


and gentlemen, now abed

by hotrodngold (Krystalicekitsu)



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krystalicekitsu/pseuds/hotrodngold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The insides of his head feel broken and disjointed, the world too close and too rough, too- something, he doesn't know, but it makes his teeth ache and his chest hurt, a molten ball of lead and hot, searing pain around the arc reactor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and gentlemen, now abed

Tony's in the living room, dirty and greasy and accomplished and the night is bright through the closed shades, and the ice clinks in his pizza but it tastes like honey and Thor shouts a greeting before-

he can't move and can't speak and everything's exploding around him in fire and sand and "Rhodey!" only he's killing himself, his own name done him in-

the water freezing, and he can hear it hiss and crack and snap in his head, as it would do, will do, should do, electrocuted by the thing keeping him alive-

poison eating away, latticing itself across his chest, swallowing him whole in inky black, para-

lyzing him, pain, warmth trickling from his ears and can't move can't twitch dear god, no, don't, Obie-

"-why," Tony chokes out, awake and shaking, Steve rubbing slowly over one shoulder, the single point of contact. He forces breath after breath out, dragging them back in, repeating the facts with every inhale: 'I'm home, I'm safe, he's dead, I'm alive, I'm Iron Man, it's 2012, everything's fine'.

But Tony's muscles _ache_ , violently so, like the first time he put on a suit, right after Yin-

He vaults out of bed, not ready to revisit that memory (maybe never ready) and makes two quick, sharp passes around the end of their bed, Steve watching him with silent eyes, and he's halfway to the bottle of whiskey and a tumbler from the bar, before deciding that's not the best idea, before needing to go to ground, before making for the en suite.

The insides of his head feel broken and disjointed, the world too close and too rough, too- something, he doesn't know, but it makes his teeth ache and his chest hurt, a molten ball of lead and hot, searing pain around the arc reactor. The sink comes on with one harsh wave, the rushing loud in the silence of the night and Tony resolutely _doesn't_ look up into the mirror.

He doesn't even bother with the glass sitting beside the sink, just cups his hands and bends over, desperate to get the taste of sand and grit and gunpowder from his mouth. Chokes down a handful, two, before the smell of the water and the sound of it swirling in the basin snap him back to the dirt and grit and the musty smell of damp sand, clutching that battery to his chest and hoping that nothing shorts the leads.

The tiles are hard and cold and hurt when one flings oneself into them, Tony discovers, but the pain is secondary, panic flashing through him, and though he knows the blue glow means he cannot possibly have a car battery and the smoggy, New York air means he cannot be seconds away from drowning in a cave in some stupid Middle-Eastern desert, he still can't get enough breath.

He leans over, hands clutching the edge of the sink so hard it grinds the bones together-

"You're fine," Steve whispers into his neck. He sounds frantic, worried, just this side of panicking, but-

-over him, holding him under-

Tony wheezes in a breath, strikes backwards with an elbow before he's even aware of it, hears the grunt in an Arabic tongue-

The tile in the shower is cold. Cold and dry.

"Tony?"

Tony looks up, raises his forehead from his knees, elbows still tucked tight to his ribs- tender, vulnerable- and blinks slowly at Steve's mirrored position against the bathroom door. The numb ache in his ass tells him he's been here a while, the chill in his skin confirming it. Even if it hadn't, Steve's earnestly miserable look is time-sensitive, eyes going rounder incrementally over time.

"Steve," he croaks back, burying his face back in his knees as Steve scrambles across the space between them. He should be past this by now, stupid _fucking_ nightmares about things that happened years ago but he's not, he's not, _he's not_.

Steve hovers, hovers badly and Tony can feel him hesitate.

"Can I- ?"

Tony thinks about it, runs the thoughts and permutations through his mind.

"Not the- Not my chest," he says.

He runs the numbers again.

"Not my neck," he mumbles.

The 'Oh, Tony' is breathed into his hair, against his skin and he wants to scream, to break down in tears because this _isn't_ how this is supposed to go, his life isn't supposed to be like this but it is and he can't so he just buries his face in his knees and lets Steve hold on for him.


End file.
